


No Stranger in Your Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Dark City (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dr. Schreber pays Murdoch a surprise visit, John realizes that Daniel is the only one who truly knows him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story's title comes from Imogen Heap's song "Come Here Boy"... which really fits with the whole fic, now that I think about it.

_. . . . Flight.  Running on ground that shifted beneath his feet, dodging buildings that grew like daisies in a time warp.  Fleeing.  Above, empty space, pressing down on him like a huge hand, crushing, unchangeable even by his will.  Unseen pursuers, but he knew who they were, always chasing, always, always . . . .  Running for the ocean, his safety, **his** , but it wasn't there, only paper and paint that ripped, leaving an empty hole into space, sucking him out into oblivion.  Then a hand caught at his, and someone whispered, "John, you can do anything". . . ._

\--

John Murdoch trembled in the darkness, hating the night and the dreams that came with it.

 _There doesn't have to be a night,_ he thought.  _I could change it._   But he knew he would never do it.  Erasing the night was just as bad as erasing the day, although keeping it was the hardest thing, harder than making it rain sometimes or watching tragedy he could have stopped if he had dared interfere.  No, he couldn't give in and stop the night.  How strange that he must suffer in a world that was his own.

Murdoch rose from his bed and went to the window.  The familiar view, overlooking the ocean which now sparkled in the moonlight, comforted him, the real dark night less frightening than that of his dream.  The lighthouse threw a beam to the darkness, a ray of hope that was totally unnecessary.  No ship would ever sail these seas; no one would see the beam of light as a beacon to safety.  It was all a lie.

Murdoch sank to the floor, overcome with a hopelessness and dread he couldn't shake.  Ever since Emma, Anna, had left him, each night had been this way-- complete Hell.  He thought often of the emptiness of space beyond the mists of his ocean, of the oblivion that had been Bumstead's fate.  Was it better to have suffered that than to live this lie?

No, it was all right to live a lie.  Hell was living the truth.

\--

He was dreaming of Emma/Anna when he was awakened by a knocking, somewhere.  Ten, the clock said, morning.  He was in bed again, having somehow gotten there in the night without remembering.

"Too early," Murdoch groaned aloud, pulling his pillow over his head.

The pounding continued.

"Go away," he muttered into the fluffy darkness.

Pounding.

"No," he said as it finally drove him out of bed.  Wrapping a robe about himself, Murdoch staggered towards the source of the sound, down the stairs of the house of his imaginary childhood's memory.  The door.  Pounding.  He could make the door go away.

"I'm coming," he growled, fumbling with the lock.  As the door came open, he snarled, "What is it?"

Then he blinked.

"Were you still-- asleep?  I'm sorry," Dr. Schreber said from where he stood on the door's other side.

"Schreber. . . . what. . . ."  Murdoch raked a hand across his protesting eyes, then through his messy, darkly curling hair.  He half suspected that he was still asleep and only dreaming that the psychiatrist, whom he had not seen once in the months since the birth of Shell Beach, had come to him.

"Can I-- come in?" Schreber asked.  "It is-- rather warm out here."

"Oh.  Yeah," Murdoch said groggily, opening the door wider, "78 degrees, every day.  I like it warm."

Schreber came inside, looked around at the large, open room.  "This," he said, "like in-- your memory, no?"

Murdoch still stood by the door, feeling somehow accused.  "Yes," he said, defensively.  "All of it, from my memory."  _The false memory. . . the memory you gave me._   Schreber stood perfectly still, his misshapen form not at all at ease in the setting of John's youth-- not confidently handsome as he appeared in the memories that Murdoch still traced in his mind, trying to understand.

"What do you want?" Murdoch asked, warily, when the psychiatrist did not respond to him.

"I have been-- all over your City," Schreber said, finally turning to face Murdoch.  "I wanted to see-- what you did to it.  How-- you changed it."  He paused, stopping the flow of his breathy words, the pattern that haunted John's dreams as often as did Emma/Anna's smooth low voice.  "It is-- quite amazing.  But now-- I've come to see-- your town.  Shell Beach."  He took a faltering step towards Murdoch.  "It was _their--_ creation, but-- I left it part-- of you, and-- you loved it.  So now-- it's _yours._ "  The maimed man's quick inhalations added a bizarre system of punctuation to his speech, emphasizing words that Murdoch found strange.

"I wish it _wasn't_ mine," Murdoch said bitterly, surprising himself by speaking thoughts that felt traitorous.  "I wish I didn't know."

"But-- you _do_ know," Schreber said philosophically.  "So.  Will you show-- me your dream?"

"You don't want to see my dreams," Murdoch muttered.  "But I'll show you around town.  Let me go dress."  He was almost to the stairs when Schreber spoke again.

"The girl.  Anna.  Is she here?"

"No."  John shuddered inwardly.  "She left me, a few weeks ago.  I tried to tell her, to make her see, and. . . ."  Murdoch trailed off.

"That was not-- very wise," Schreber chided.

" _Wise_?"  Murdoch spun on his heel, almost snarling again.  "You think that matters to me?"  He went to Schreber, grasped him by the shoulders so that the doctor's maimed face twisted even more in fear.  John suddenly remembered using his tuning on Schreber in Bumstead's car, forcing him to show them the way to Shell Beach.  He remembered Schreber's wordless screaming, the agony in his eyes.  He remembered the sadistic pleasure he himself felt at hurting the man whom he blamed for it all, the man who had ultimately saved his life and his sanity.  For the first time, he felt guilty for his treatment of Schreber, both then and now, and the guilt only made him angrier.

"When I lost Emma, when _you_ made her into Anna, I lost the only person who understood me.  And now I'm alone.  Do you think I care about being _wise_ now?"

The doctor recoiled further, his twisted lips parting and his blue eyes, one half-lidded, gazing into John's with a wounded expression.  _He always looks at me that way,_ Murdoch thought, _when I'm angry with him.  Why?   What else does he expect from me?_ He shoved Schreber away from him, making the blond man stumble slightly on unsteady legs.

"I'll be back in a minute," John grumbled as he turned away and ascended the staircase.  The doctor watched him without speaking.

In his bedroom, Murdoch shed his robe, then pulled off the silk pajama pants he was wearing and replaced them with tan slacks; he shied away from black or dark clothes, finding them too reminiscent of the City's perpetual night.  He found a clean white shirt and shrugged into it, buttoning it over his undershirt as he went to the mirror.  A rake of his fingers through his hair, now getting rather shaggy, made him presentable once he had tucked in his shirt.  He needed to shave though, he decided, eyeing his chin.

Then his gaze moved up, and he found himself staring into his own eyes.  Murdoch noticed again their unevenness, which he had discovered the first time he looked into a mirror in this lifetime, at the hotel room where he had awakened too soon.  One eye opened more widely than the other, particularly when he was tired.  If he relaxed his face, as he did now, his right eye came only half open, its lid drooping partially over it.

John had noticed this anomaly before, but not until now did he realize that it was Schreber's right eye which remained half-closed as well.

Murdoch gritted his teeth and returned downstairs where Schreber waited for him.  The doctor was seated in an arm chair, his hands curled and gripping the carved wooden arms.  He started when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, looked up fearfully.  He seemed to be afraid that John would hurt him or, at the least, yell at him again.

"This won't take long," Murdoch said, trying to sound neutral since he doubted he could manage pleasant.  "It's a small town."

"Yes-- I know," Schreber replied as he got to his feet.  John shot him a glare, thinking, _He **tries** to be a know-it-all._   The thought made John smile a little, the first time he could remember smiling in a while; "know-it-all" seemed such a harmless, puerile designation for Daniel Schreber.

They walked up and down the little streets of Shell Beach, passed quaint shops and fisheries, all false, all perfect as seen through a child's eyes.  People nodded and spoke to Murdoch, then stared, either disguised or openly, at Schreber.  John felt embarrassed, possibly for Schreber but likely more because he viewed the citizens' rudeness as a personal failure.  This was _his_ town after all, so their behavior was his responsibility.

Nevertheless, Schreber did not seem perturbed.  He ignored the hostile gazes with a dignity that surprised and captivated John.  How could one be dignified after undergoing nameless tortures at the hands of the Strangers?  Somehow, he managed, and Murdoch realized that Schreber had attempted it even when the Strangers were alive, when Murdoch himself had, at times deliberately, humiliated the psychiatrist.

 _I made him grovel as much as they did,_ Murdoch thought.  _Yet he endured it to free himself of them. . . and to save me._ Now, he wondered if Schreber's dignity was an act performed for his, John's, benefit. . . as Murdoch's own gruffness was enacted for Schreber.

They came finally to the foot of the lighthouse and left the boardwalk to tread out onto the sand.

"It is-- a lovely place," Schreber said, nudging a perfectly formed scallop shell with the toe of his shoe.

"Yes," Murdoch quietly agreed as he looked out at his ocean.  The sun was nearing its zenith, and it shown hotly down upon the sea, casting a net of vivid sparkles on the tops of the waves.  John glanced at Schreber, who stood to his right.  In profile, the doctor seemed whole, unmarred.

 _I'm not even angry at him,_ Murdoch realized.  _Not anymore.  It's just that he makes such an excellent scapegoat.  He's something human I can blame. . . something human that looks at me like a kicked puppy whenever I attack him._   To Murdoch's even greater guilt, he realized that he had _liked_ the kicked-puppy look; it had given him a measure of power in a world where he had felt powerless.

But now he literally had all the power in the world; he didn't need to force this man to cower at his feet any longer.  Especially considering what Schreber had sacrificed, had risked for him.

"You must be an excellent shrink," Murdoch murmured abruptly.

"What-- makes you say that?"  Startled out of their long silence, Schreber turned to look at him.  Murdoch kept his gaze focused on the ocean, not wanting to see the half-hidden blue eye that reminded him of his own.

"You've got me psychoanalyzing myself without you saying a word."

"John, I don't-- understand."

"I know."  He faced Schreber then and managed a smile at him.  "Are you hungry?  There's an excellent lunch counter nearby."

Schreber stared at him a moment, giving him the look of a bewildered puppy rather than a kicked one.  "Erm, yes," he finally answered.  "I am-- hungry."

"Good."  Murdoch took him back up to the boardwalk, and they started walking eastward, towards the small clutch of shops.

"Did you really come here just to see what I'd done with the place?" Murdoch asked as they sat at the counter with sandwiches.  He was curious to see if Schreber would actually eat; it occurred to him that he had never seen the man ingest anything before.

"Yes," Schreber said.  His hand hovered, claw-like, over his plate.  Murdoch waited with held breath until, yes, Schreber _did_ pick up his sandwich and bite into it.  _He really is a human being._

"Why?" persisted Murdoch once the momentous first bite of sandwich was accomplished.  "Are you still observing the results of your experiment?"  He spoke facetiously, but Schreber looked at him in all seriousness, with a searching, piercing, appraising gaze from behind his glasses.

"Yes," the doctor said again.  "You are an-- experiment-- mine.  One of two-- who know the truth about-- this place.  You and-- I."

John was not offended; perhaps he might have been had he really believed Schreber.  But something told him the psychiatrist was lying or, at least, not telling the whole truth.

"But to truly gauge the results of your experiment, shouldn't you observe the variables from afar?"  John took a bite of his own sandwich, forcing Schreber to wait for him to elucidate.  "By coming to see me, won't you compromise the. . . what's the word. . . integrity of your data?"

Schreber gave a short laugh.  "Do you think-- I could observe-- you undetected?  I am not-- stealthy, John."

Murdoch felt the corner of his mouth twist in a smile.  "Doc, you're the stealthiest person I know."  Schreber's eyes rested on his face for a moment, judging the smile perhaps.  John hoped that the psychiatrist realized that it was genuine.

"In all-- seriousness," Schreber went on as he turned back to his plate, "I know that you-- would be aware of-- my coming here.  I would not be-- unnoticed, as I am-- in the city."  He sipped at his fountain drink through a straw.  "And then you-- might resent me, for-- spying upon you.  Although-- I suppose-- you resent me now."  He said the last four words in a rush, even faster than his normal race to get out as many words as possible before gasping for breath.  Schreber inhaled deeply, then began to eat once more.

"I did resent you," Murdoch said slowly, toying with his napkin.  "Despite everything you did for me.  I'm sure, as a shrink, you can understand why."

Schreber chewed, swallowed, then nodded.  "Yes, although I prefer the term-- 'enthusiast-- of the human mind.'"  He smiled faintly, reminding Murdoch of the way he had smiled early in their acquaintance, with that pleading look, hopeful that John would smile with him.  Now, for the first time, John did.

"I know you-- blamed me," Schreber went on.  "You say-- despite what I did-- for you.  What I did-- _to_ you, all of you-- outweighed it.  And you-- were right."  He ducked his head slightly, staring down at the edge of the counter.  "I deserve only-- your resentment.  Even now."

"Schreber. . . ."  Murdoch bit his lip, then forced himself to say the hardest words he had ever spoken.  "I don't, not anymore.  Most people would have done the same as you--"

"I did-- resist them-- John," Schreber said suddenly, lifting his head to meet Murdoch's gaze.  "I _did_.  You can-- see that."  John's eyes shifted to Schreber's mangled ear, his permanently half-closed right eye, and Murdoch nodded.  "But I couldn't-- forever," Schreber pressed on.  "My heart-- is weak."

"I wasn't finished," Murdoch said gently.  "Not only would most people have given in to the Strangers. . . I don't think many would have fought them, certainly not for my sake, someone who meant nothing to you. "

Schreber's gaze shied away from John's, and the psychiatrist reached for his glass, taking a long drink.  Murdoch realized that he'd embarrassed Schreber; besides, he had said enough.

"I _did_ resent you when you woke me up this morning, though," John commented as he went back to his sandwich.

"My-- apologies.  I forget-- not everyone is an-- early riser like myself."

After lunch, they walked along the beach; Murdoch carried his shoes in his hand, but Schreber kept his on.  He seemed to have slight difficulty moving his wounded leg in the sand, but he quickly refused when Murdoch asked if he would prefer to walk on the boardwalk.

"And that's Shell Beach," Murdoch said when they reached the edge of the town, where an outcropping of rocks prevented them from walking farther.  "The sand goes on for a bit past the rocks, but that's all."

"That-- is all," Schreber echoed.  It was nearing late afternoon, and the sun's light had turned more golden as it neared the horizon, the edge of the water-disc that surrounded their island in space.  _He'll go back to the City now,_ Murdoch realized suddenly; for some reason, in the past hours he hadn't once thought about Schreber leaving after he had seen all there was to see.

"Unless you want to watch the sunset," added Murdoch suddenly.  "It'll happen in about an hour-- or faster, if I speed things up."

"Don't-- speed it up.  No need to-- upset things."  Schreber's twisted mouth curved softly in a smile.  "I-- will wait."

They sat on the rocks and waited for the sun to set, not speaking.  The light crept closer to the water, truly setting: it was an actual light which orbited the City, not a star.  But it served its purpose, warming and lighting John Murdoch's small world.  As its edge finally touched the water, the light shifted colors, beginning to turn from yellow to orange.  John had surreptitiously brought in a few small clouds to heighten the effect, and they flared orange as well.

Murdoch glanced at Schreber as the sun's color deepened and reddened.  The golden light shone on the doctor's face, turning his hair quite yellow and reflecting off his glasses.  His skin glowed an organic, non-metallic gold as well.

"It's beautiful," Schreber murmured.  "We do-- not get sunsets-- in the City.  Not-- like this."

"I'll have to fix that."

Eventually, the sun sank below the disc of water that was the horizon; the clouds turned from red to pink, then slowly darkened as night came on.  The stars which surrounded the City began to appear one by one, and finally John had no excuse to sit there any longer.

"Are you traveling back to the City tonight?" he asked Schreber.

The doctor got to his feet carefully, as if afraid that his legs would not support him on the sand.  "I had planned to."

Murdoch walked slowly back to the boardwalk to allow Schreber to keep up with him.  "What-- you don't want to see the sunrise too?"

"I am surprised-- you bothered with-- sunrise.  You sleep-- so late."  Schreber apparently felt comfortable enough now to tease him.  "Is there-- a hotel-- here?"

"Of course, it's a resort town."  John drew his tongue across his teeth, hesitating, before he went on, "You know that the house has three bedrooms.  You don't have to stay in a hotel."

They were almost to John's street before Schreber murmured, "All right."

\--

to be continued


	2. Chapter 2

Murdoch had the dream again that night, the darkness and emptiness of space both pressing and pulling on him.  This time, however, there was no one there to help him, no hand to grasp his, no voice to encourage him.  John felt himself being torn away from the City, from his world, and his screams for help went unheard.

He awoke himself with a hoarse cry, sitting up in bed with a shudder.  He thought, hoped he had made no other noise in his sleep, but his hopes were dashed when he heard uneven footsteps in the hall.

"John?"  Schreber stood in his doorway, breathing loudly and unevenly.  He had apparently come as fast as he could.

"I had a nightmare," Murdoch grumbled, ashamed of his weakness.  "Sorry I woke you."

Schreber remained there for a moment, silent, then hobbled into the room, towards Murdoch's bed.  Bluish light from a false moon came in through John's unshuttered window, and he could see Schreber's face clearly as the doctor hesitated at his side.

"Of what did you-- dream?"

_Time for him to psychoanalyze me,_ John thought bitterly.  _Maybe **that's** why he really came here-- to find out how I'm holding up._   Still, even Schreber should allow him a few nightmares after all he'd been through.

"The same thing I always dream, that I'm being sucked out into space. . . like Bumstead."  Murdoch turned his head away sullenly as Schreber lowered his hunched form to sit on the edge of the bed.

"What else?" the doctor asked.

Murdoch drew his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them, like a child.  "It's not just that I'm falling into the void. . . .  They chase me there.  Every night, every damn night. . . ."  The same sick sense of horror overtook him, and this time, he didn't know that he could hold it back.  Somehow, talking about it made it more real, more painful, yet he couldn't quit.

"Usually, you're in the dreams. . . you catch me.  But tonight, you weren't there.  There was no one there."  He choked and broke off, shuddering once more as he tried to bite back a sob of frustration and revulsion.

"I wish I-- could make you sleep-- as they could," Schreber murmured abruptly.  "Then-- you would not dream.  You shouldn't-- have to live-- it over and over."

"No," rasped Murdoch.  "I don't want to sleep like that.  Like death--"  He broke off when the sob refused to be contained any longer, gasping for breath afterwards and closing his eyes to hold back the tears that threatened him.

Then he felt Schreber's hand on his head, fingers curling in his hair.  "John.  I-- will catch you.  I promise."

The unexpected kindness broke Murdoch down in a way that total rejection could not have.  He wept almost silently, unable to do anything but shake as Schreber stroked his hair.  After a moment, he felt the doctor's other arm about his shoulders, holding him.  Murdoch leaned against him as his tears stopped and his sobs quieted.  When he was finally still, he was able to be embarrassed at the show of weakness, at crying in Schreber's arms.

John suddenly recalled the fire that had burned down this house's doppelganger in his memories; he remembered being carried from this very room to safety, cradled in strong arms. . . the same arms that now held him, trembling and weak though they were.  He remembered the voice which told him he would survive, a voice reassuring and affectionate, as a single tear tracked its way down John's cheek.

_That was a different Schreber,_ Murdoch thought.  _The real one, like he was before the Strangers tore him apart._   Or maybe not.  Perhaps the battered man to whom he now clung was the true Daniel Schreber now, for John had grown up, so to speak, believing that the Schreber of his memory loved him as a sort of surrogate father who never changed or aged, who when John was older became a contemporary.  An only child in this last life at least, John had no concept of what it would be like to have a brother, so perhaps that's what the memory-Schreber was to him-- though a rather stern and jealous brother, who interrupted his trysts with Emma to remind him of what he must do.  At any rate, the Schreber in his world lacked that perfection, and maybe that was what was real.

"Who were you?" John muttered as he sat up, pulling away from the doctor.  "In my memories, I mean."

Schreber blinked at him, apparently confused by the sudden change of tone.  "I don't-- understand."

"You were my teacher.  But you were everything else too.  Every memory I have-- you're there."  John met the moonlit blue eyes, one drooping, and tried to ignore the tears he felt drying on his own face.  "You're _always_ there.  And yet-- I don't think I know you at all."

"There is-- a discrepancy," Schreber finally answered, "between how I-- appear to you in-- your memories, and how-- I really am.  And yet-- that is how I-- was, must have been-- at one time."  He looked down, gave a soft, humorless scoff of a laugh.  "Whole.  Even-- rather handsome, I think.  I don't remember-- being that way.  But yes-- say I was-- your teacher.  And-- your friend.  In some-- other life-- it might have-- been that way.  I wish-- it had been-- in this one."

It was the most Schreber had said all day.  Impulsively, Murdoch caught the doctor's chin in his hand, searching in the ruined face for the striking man who haunted his memories and dreams.  And Murdoch found him-- something in the mouth, the one good eye still hinted of perfection, of the soul that had been implanted into Murdoch's mind.  The psychologist stared, shuddered as if he were afraid John were going to tune him, hurt him.

"It _is_ that way," Murdoch mumbled as he let go of Schreber.  "You _are_ myfriend.  I just have a funny way of showing it."

"John."  The word came in an almost-gasp until Schreber gained control of his voice.  "That is-- all I wanted.  Your acceptance.  Forgiveness."

"You have it."

Murdoch was exhausted, and he lay back, fighting the dreaded sleep which threatened to overtake his consciousness.  He kept speaking in an attempt to stay awake.  "You said. . . your heart is weak.  But you're wrong.  You must have a strong heart to do what you did. . . and to come back to me. . . after everything."

"Oh, John.  You have already-- broken it so-- many times, what is-- one more?"

_What does he mean by **that**?_ John wondered, but he was too far gone to care.  _No,_ he thought, _I don't want to sleep.  I don't. . . ._

He slept anyway and dreamed no more that night.

\--

When John awoke next, it was early morning; the light coming from the window was now brighter and grey, pre-dawn.   Even though he had only slept for a few hours, he felt more rested than he had in weeks.

He turned over, planning on sleeping another couple hours at least, then was startled wide awake: Schreber lay next to him, slumbering deeply.  He had fallen asleep with his glasses on and lay on top of the covers in his slacks and an undershirt.  _He didn't mean to stay here all night,_ John realized, smiling slightly as he did so.  He could already imagine Schreber's embarrassment upon awakening.

"Daniel," he whispered, nudging the sleeping man.  Somehow, he couldn't call him by his last name, not just after they'd spent the night in the same bed, however chastely.

"Mn?"  Schreber stirred then opened his eyes drowsily.  With a sharp intake of breath, he stared at John, looking terrified.

"You want to see that sunrise or not?" John asked, unable to avoid a wider smile.

"Sunrise-- oh-- yes."  Schreber scrambled into a sitting position, trying to simultaneously smooth down his hair and adjust his glasses.  "I am sorry I--"  He broke off, tried again.  "I did not-- mean to-- sleep. . . here."

Murdoch got up and shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt that he had left lying on the floor.  When he reached for a pair of pants to change into, Schreber looked away in further embarrassment.

"We'll have to hurry," Murdoch went on, ignoring the apology.  "The sunrise only lasts a few minutes.  Here," he added, tossing a flannel shirt at Schreber when the doctor finally stood awkwardly.  "It's cool in the mornings."

"I thought you-- liked it warm."  Schreber wrapped the shirt around himself with a shiver.

"Only during the day.  But I sleep better when it's cooler."

There was no one else about as they walked toward the beach.  Murdoch walked quickly, with greater strides than Schreber, who had to hurry to keep up.

"You-- called me Daniel," the psychiatrist murmured when they had nearly reached the boardwalk, walking silently.

"Sorry.  Too familiar?"  Murdoch looked at him sideways.  "You call me John all the time."

"No, it's-- I don't mind.  It is just-- strange.  No one else--"  He did not finish.

By the time they stepped onto the sand, the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon.  Slowing down to allow Schreber to keep up with him, Murdoch led him to a crest of sand just out of the ocean's reach.

"Look," he said softly, pointing at the water just touched by the sun's first rays.

"Oh--"  The water bore a strangely iridescent hue, shining pinkly in the early light.  It seemed almost to glow of its own accord.  The clear sky was touched with that soft rose color edged with a peachy orange, but to Murdoch, the water was far more beautiful.

"It only looks like this at sunrise," John whispered.  "And then, only for a few minutes-- when the sun gets too high, the water doesn't reflect it like this."

"It's beautiful."  Schreber raised his head, squinting slightly, to look at the sky, then he gazed at the water once more.  "John-- thank you-- for showing me."

"You're welcome.  Daniel."

They stood in silence until the sun rose higher and, as John had described, the iridescence dissipated, leaving plain blue water behind.  It was lovely in its own right, but brighter, harsher.  They didn't stay to watch it but instead went inside for breakfast.

John wasn't much of a cook, but he made edible toast and coffee, at least.  He and Schreber did not talk much as they ate, but it was a comfortable silence.  They sat drinking coffee for long afterwards, Schreber finally finding his voice and asking Murdoch long series of questions about Shell Beach and Murdoch's relationships with the other inhabitants there.  John was about to reciprocate with the questions when a knock on his door cut off his words.

Murdoch was startled, particularly because it was exactly the time of morning that Schreber had arrived the day before.  Schreber himself looked hunted, or even trapped.

When John answered the door, it was Anna.  She still came to see Murdoch from time to time out of concern for his health, physical and especially mental.

"Hi, John," she said pleasantly, smiling at him with that slightly guarded expression she wore for the first few minutes of every visit, as if she were afraid he would demand more than friendship from her.  _Don't worry,_ he felt like saying to her.  _I won't ask that of you.  Especially not now._

"Hi.  Come in."  He moved aside for her to enter.  As she walked past him, she started to say something but stopped short when she saw Schreber.  The doctor got to his feet in a kind of forced courteousness.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Anna exclaimed.  "I didn't know you had--"

"Anna, this is Daniel Schreber.  My friend."  Daniel gave him an oblique, surprised look, then he came forward and extended his hand to Anna.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, taking the proffered hand briefly.  She seemed slightly curious about Schreber, but she hid it well.   "John hasn't ever told me anything about his friends."

"No, I cannot-- imagine that he-- would mention me," Schreber said wryly as he sat again.  "He has-- spoken of you-- many times, however."

Murdoch glared at him, and Anna seemed slightly uncomfortable as she forced a smile and sat down in an armchair.  John sat next to Schreber on his sofa, feeling as if he were part of an extremely bizarre ménage a trois.

"Did you come down from the City this morning?" Murdoch finally asked Anna as a way of making some conversation.  She lived in the City, having stayed there even after Murdoch built (rebuilt?) his house in Shell Beach.

"Yes."  She looked at Schreber and smiled pleasantly.  "Do you live here in Shell Beach?"

"No, I live-- in the City-- as well."  He paused then went on, "I am visiting-- John-- for a few days."  Murdoch wondered if he detected a hint of vindictiveness in Daniel's voice.  Insanely, he hoped so; he was annoyed at Anna too for interrupting. . . what?  Of that, he wasn't sure.

"Oh."  Anna looked suitably startled, then she went on more evenly, "What do you do?"

Schreber hesitated and looked at Murdoch, who wasn't prepared to lie although he knew what Anna's reaction would be.

"Daniel's a psychiatrist."

" _Oh_ ," Anna said again, in an entirely different tone of voice.

"Although I am-- not here in any-- official capacity," Schreber added.  Of course, the denial only convinced Anna of the opposite.  Schreber apparently realized this from her placating nod of response, and he got to his feet.

"I will-- give you two-- some privacy."  He started for the door as he went on, "John, I will be-- outside."

"All right."  Murdoch scowled at his back, feeling that Daniel had only made things worse.

"I'm sorry if I came at a bad time," Anna said again after Schreber had gone.  "But I think it's wonderful that you're. . . ."  She hesitated, and Murdoch jumped in with a sardonic smile.

"Getting help?"

"No!  I meant, seeing other people. . . besides me."  She leaned forward slightly and said warmly, "I had no idea you had any friends at all."

"I don't, exactly."  John raked a hand through his hair, wondering how to explain his relationship with Schreber to the woman he had thought he loved.  "I haven't seen him since. . . well, since before I met you."  **_This_** _you, anyway_ , he added silently.  "He's only been here a day.  But. . . we've become friends."

"He seems very fond of you.  In fact, he looked kind of jealous of me."  Anna gave him a smile that showed she meant it in the most innocent of ways.  "Or is he always that nervous?"

John chuckled in spite of himself.  "He's always nervous.  But he'll. . . surprise you."

They talked for another ten minutes, then Anna left with the claim that she wanted to do some shopping; John suspected that she still felt she was intruding.  After she was gone, he slipped to a window and peeked out past the curtain.  Anna stood at the end of his walk, talking earnestly to Schreber.

_She **does** think he's here to evaluate me,_ Murdoch thought sourly.  _And maybe she's right._   He suddenly had the feeling that all of Schreber's attempts at friendship had been a scam, just a way to observe the results of his experiment.  Of course Schreber had told him as much the day before, but John hadn't really believed that that was the _only_ reason Daniel had come to him.  Still. . . maybe it was.

John sat down on the sofa and waited for Schreber to return.  The doctor came back in within five minutes, stopping just inside the doorway when he saw Murdoch's scowl.  Schreber's own expression looked slightly disappointed but resigned, as if he had known it would come to that.

"Did you tell her all about my _condition_?" Murdoch asked, glaring up at the mismatched blue eyes that were watching him.

"John, she did not-- ask about-- that."

"Oh come on.  She thinks you're just here to check me out-- and she's probably right."  He got to his feet and approached Schreber, who drew back to press against the door.  The motion, that of flight, made Murdoch's heart ache.  _He's still scared of me._   The pain only made him angrier.

"No, she-- only asked me to-- take care of you."  Murdoch narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but Schreber went on before he could speak.  "She said-- I must be-- your only friend.  That you-- needed me."  His already bent mouth twisted further in a biting, self-loathing smile.

John wanted to declare Anna wrong, but he knew he could not.  The fact that Schreber's fear hurt him showed him that much.

"She doesn't know you," he compromised by saying.  "And she doesn't really know me."

"Perhaps not, but. . . I know you," Schreber murmured.   "John, with you, it is-- all or nothing."  He paused, breathed.  "Love-- or hatred."  They stood looking at one another a moment, then Schreber went on, "I should go-- before we reach-- the obvious outcome.  I do not want-- you to hate me-- John."  He turned to the door; having come with nothing, he had nothing with which to leave.

_Don't go,_ Murdoch thought, but he could make no move to stop Schreber.  Perhaps it was pride, or perhaps he too feared what Daniel called the obvious outcome.  Either way, he let Schreber leave, and the doctor did not falter or turn back.

As always, John searched for someone else to blame.  First Anna for interrupting them, the companionship they had been enjoying that day until his arrival.  Then Schreber himself, for telling her that silly line about "official capacity," for allowing her to think that he could "take care of" John.  Really though, Murdoch knew it was his own fault.  He had driven Schreber away the same way he had Anna, by expecting the other person to accept more than he or she ever could.

_Anna couldn't accept the truth of what I told her about myself and the Strangers.  Daniel can accept **that** , can accept me and all my power. . . but he can't take what patient Anna could: my anger.  _No, Daniel cringed, withdrew, ran away rather than risk the pain of being tuned or yelled at or rejected.  Hated.

\--

To be continued


	3. Chapter 3

Murdoch had no job-- he did not, of course, need one, being the god of his little world.  This made the day seem interminable, impossible to get through, with only a night of horrible dreams to reward him at its end.

_What do I have to live for?_ he wondered in a fit of depression that struck mid-afternoon.  _I've built my paradise, but I'm alone here._

John went down to the beach to watch the sunset, but it only reminded him of Schreber: how the doctor had looked with the golden light illuminating his warped face, how he had murmured over the sunset's beauty.  Murdoch scowled at the sky, ocean, and horizon and went inside before the sun had completely set.  
  
That night, the dreams returned, but they were not, at first, horrible.  John dreamed of the beach, that he and Schreber sat there on the sand watching the sun rise, and that Daniel was as he appeared in John's memories: whole, perfect.  John gazed at his handsome face as the sunlight crept over it, then Schreber turned to him with the slightly startled, fearful look he only bore in his ruined, real-life body.  John had never seen him with that expression in his memories.

"What?  What is it?" Daniel asked, without the stuttering gasp yet still with a slight tremor.

"Why are you scared of me, Daniel?"  John covered Schreber's hand, resting in the sand, with his.

"You've hurt me, so many times."

Murdoch knew it was true, and he longed to assure Schreber that it wouldn't happen again. . . but he could not.  Even in the dream, he knew that his anger and resentment was something that would only diminish gradually; he could make no promises.

"I'm sorry," John murmured; he could be honest about that, at least.  "Daniel. . . ."

He awoke then, sleep receding as rapidly as the ocean's tide drew back in his dreams.  His eyes remaining closed, John lay still, his hand still curled as it had been over Daniel's in the dream.  He could almost still feel the other man's fingers between his, but he knew that when he moved, the illusion would vanish, and he would be alone.  When he fell asleep again, he had the same nightmare as always, the Strangers, the pursuit, the gaping void of space.

Murdoch slept late the next morning, but when he finally rose, it was only to face another day, bleak and empty.  _I can't keep doing this,_ he thought.  _I can't go on alone._   And he knew this time that he couldn't turn to Emma/Anna to soothe that loneliness.  She couldn't understand him, couldn't believe what he told her-- and he couldn't really expect her to.  She wasn't the one.

John knew very well who _did_ understand.  Schreber was the one he needed, the one who knew the truth, who haunted his memories.  Through those memories, a child's reverence for the knowledgeable, ever-present figure had grown into a man's love.  And even if the real Schreber was not the same man as the perfect, unmarred one in his memories-- they still possessed the same soul.

Murdoch dressed and locked up his house, maintaining the pretence that he didn't live in a world he controlled, then he walked to the bus station, taking his time.  Only one bus left the small Shell Beach station, the bus to the City, and John could make it arrive whenever he wanted.

Despite his earlier convictions, John tarried when he reached the City.  He knew that, for all his power, he couldn't make Schreber accept him.  If Murdoch had learned anything from the Strangers, it was that the human spirit cannot be forced into feeling.  From the street, he watched the sun set behind the tall buildings.  Daniel had been right; there wasn't much of a sunset to speak of.  Then John went to Schreber's office, still walking slowly, knowing that Daniel would be there.

He knocked on the office door and waited, staring at the doctor's name printed on the glass: the only name in the whole world that seemed familiar to him.  Then a shadow moved behind the glass, and the door opened.

"John--" Schreber breathed, staring up at him.  From Daniel's expression, John realized he had never expected Murdoch to come to him.

"I'm sorry," John blurted out, echoing the words of his dream.  "Daniel--"  This time, the name felt alien and unfamiliar on his lips.

Schreber's own crooked lips parted, then he closed his mouth and stepped back, opening the door wider.  "Please.  Come in."

The office was small and dimly lit, dominated by an empty maze.  Schreber saw John staring at it, and the doctor gave a small, humorless laugh.

"I let-- the rats go.  Set them free-- in the City."  He laid his hand across the top of the maze briefly, then turned away.  "My experiments with them-- are no longer-- needed."

"Why, 'cause you have me for a guinea pig now?"  Murdoch said it with humor in his voice, humor that he hoped Schreber would pick up on.  The doctor hesitated, then half-turned to him again, smiling.

"Yes.  You are-- a much more interesting-- subject."

Schreber had a couch in his office, of course-- even with his confused and distant memories, John knew that stereotype.  Murdoch sat on it but did not lie down; he didn't want to be here as a patient, though God knew he needed the help.  Schreber watched him, started for the arm chair nearby, then stopped, apparently for the same reason.

"Do you live here?" Murdoch asked, looking up at him.  Somehow, he already knew the answer.

"Yes.  In the-- back.  A small-- apartment."  Schreber paused, then said almost suspiciously, "Why?"

Murdoch shrugged.  "I just wondered.  It's not a very pleasant place."  He waited as Schreber finally limped to the couch and sat at the far end from John.  "Have you thought of moving?" Murdoch asked when he was settled.

"Where-- would I go?"

"You could come to Shell Beach."  Schreber cast a startled, hunted look at him, his good blue eye wide.  Murdoch hesitated at the pure shock in the look and asked, "Or. . . do you see patients here?"

Daniel shook his head.  "No.  You know-- that is a sham.  I suppose I-- did, wherever they took-- us from.  But not-- here.  The Strangers did-- provide well-- for me.  I do not-- need to work."

Murdoch looked down at his own hands, which dangled between his knees.  "How do you stay sane?  Yesterday, after you left--"  He broke off before admitting too much, but Schreber picked up on it anyway and leaned forward.

"Yes?  After-- I left. . . ?"

John clenched his hands into fists.  "I was so alone," he muttered.  "With nothing to do but wait for the nightmares."

"And did the-- nightmares come?"  Schreber's voice was soft but persistent.

"Yes.  But first. . . I dreamed of you."

"Me," Daniel echoed.

"You were like you are in my memories, but still-- still scared of me.  And when I asked you why, you said, because I hurt you, over and over."  He looked up suddenly into the psychiatrist's worried eyes, the right lid drooping as John's own did.  "I'm sorry!  I wanted to hurt you at first, before the Strangers were gone-- but now. . . ."  He was aware that he sounded angry as always, even though he felt only desperation and need.

"It is-- all right, John," Schreber murmured.

"No, it's not!"  Murdoch breathed raggedly, then forced himself to say, "Daniel, I need you.  I drive you away, but I need you."  He reached blindly for the curled, trembling hand nearest him and clutched it as he had in his dream.  "You're the one who is supposed to read people-- tell me how to keep you with me."  Schreber gave a choked noise and tried to pull his hand away, but John held it fast.  " _Tell me_."

"Just let-- me catch you," Schreber breathed with a pained look.  "John. . . let me-- help you.  You demand-- answers but-- reject-- the help I-- can give you."  His words came with more pauses and gasps than normal.

"What help is that?" whispered Murdoch.  
  
Schreber gave him a long, unreadable gaze, his face flushing except where the scars stood out whitely.  "Unconditional-- acceptance," he said finally.  Yet the painful pause, the blush told of more than acceptance.

"And forgiveness?" John asked slowly, remembering what Schreber had said he wanted from Murdoch.

"Yes."

Murdoch held Schreber's hand, trapped in his like the rats Daniel had set free.  "And love?"

Daniel's hand went cold beneath John's, and he gazed at Murdoch with a stricken look.  He did not answer.

"Daniel, could you love me?" John demanded.

Schreber's gaze faltered, then returned to his.  "John.  Why-- do you suppose-- you have the power to-- hurt me so?  Not because-- you can tune, but because-- you have-- my heart.  Since the night you-- awoke--"  He broke off, his bent chest heaving.

John reached out his free hand slowly and touched the right side of Daniel's face, the side that was mangled and scarred from the Strangers.  The psychiatrist flinched back from his touch at first, but then allowed John to slide his fingertips back along his jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

"Daniel, you said that for me, it was either love or hatred.  I thought I hated you once. . . I even tried to.  But since I failed. . . I guess I only have one choice left."  He leaned forward, and when Daniel did not try to withdraw, brushed the twisted lips with his own.

"John," Daniel whispered against his mouth.  "I love you, I-- love you!"  He suddenly all but fell against Murdoch, pulling his hand free of John's only to put his arms around Murdoch's chest and cling to him.  John kissed him more deeply then, slipping his tongue between Daniel's parted lips to explore the psychiatrist's mouth.  Daniel moaned-- _Has he ever been kissed like this?_ John wondered. _Probably not in this lifetime_ \-- and shyly reciprocated, clutching John's shirt in his hands.

"Mind if I spend the night?" John asked when their lips broke apart, both of them breathless.  "It's a long way back to Shell Beach, and it's late."

Daniel shivered slightly, out of apprehension or anticipation or both.  "Yes, you-- you can stay.  And tomorrow. . . the way back-- may not be-- so long if you're not-- alone."

\--

John had no nightmares that night, and when he awoke in the morning, Daniel was still beside him, awake and watching.  The psychiatrist lowered his eyes, blue and unmasked by his glasses, as if unsure how Murdoch would react now that it was a bit late to consider consequences.  In response, John wrapped him in a warm embrace, his fingers stroking back the other man's blond hair.

"Daniel.  I love you," he muttered.  He hadn't said it before, not in those explicit words so final and absolute and true.

He felt Schreber's breath on his chest as the doctor murmured, "Yes.  And I-- love you."

"Good."  Murdoch stopped the movement of his hand and instead rested his cheek against Schreber's hair.

"I stop-- your nightmares, and you-- stop mine," Daniel whispered.  "A nice-- arrangement."

Murdoch smiled and closed his eyes.

\--

The End


End file.
